The Snail on the Slope Page 9

  He took a look at Nava. The girl was hanging on his left arm, looking up at him, and was eagerly telling him, “So then they all huddled together, and it became really hot, you know how hot they are, and there was no moon that night at all. Then my mom, she started nudging me gently, so I crawled on all fours under everyone’s legs, and that was the last time I saw her, my mom—”

  “Nava,” Candide said, “you’re telling me this story again. You’ve told me this story two hundred times already.”

  “So what?” Nava said, surprised. “You’re a strange one, Silent Man. What else is there to tell you? There’s nothing else I know or remember. It’s not like I’m going to tell you about how you and I dug out the cellar last week, you were there, you saw it yourself. Now if I’d dug out the cellar with someone else, Crookleg, say, or Loudmouth—” She suddenly became animated. “You know, Silent Man, that might even be interesting. Why don’t you tell me about the cellar, how you and I dug it out last week, no one told me about that yet, because no one saw us do it . . .”

  Candide got distracted again. Yellow-green vegetation drifted past them, swaying gently; something was sighing and breathing loudly in the water; a swarm of the soft, whitish beetles used for intoxicating liqueurs rushed past them with a high-pitched whine; the road beneath their feet kept changing, turning soft from tall grass, then hard from broken stone. Yellow, gray, green patches—there was nothing to catch the eye and nothing to remember. Then the path turned sharply left. Candide walked a few more steps and stopped with a start. Nava broke off midsentence.

  A large deadling lay by the side of the road, its head in the swamp. Its arms and legs were splayed out and twisted in an unpleasant way, and it was completely motionless. It was lying on the trampled, heat-yellowed grass, pale and wide, and even at this distance you could tell how savagely it had been beaten. It was like jelly. Candide carefully walked around it. He started to feel anxious. The fight was very recent: the bent blades of yellow grass were straightening out as they watched. Candide carefully inspected the road. There were lots of tracks, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of them, and there was another bend in the road just a short distance away, and he couldn’t guess what was beyond it. Nava kept looking back at the deadling.

  “That wasn’t our kind,” she said very softly. “Our kind don’t know how. Big Fist keeps threatening to, but he doesn’t know how either, he just waves his arms . . . And people in the Settlement don’t know how either . . . Silent Man, how about we head back, eh? What if it’s the freaks? They say they walk here, not often, but they do walk here. We better head back . . . Why are you taking me to the Settlement, anyway? Not like I’ve never been to the Settlement before.”

  Candide got angry. What the hell? He’d walked this road a hundred times and he’d never come across anything worth remembering or thinking about. And now, when he needed to leave tomorrow—not even the day after tomorrow, but tomorrow, finally!—the one safe road becomes unsafe . . . Because the only way to the City is through the Settlement. If it’s even possible to get to the City, if the City even exists, then the road to it goes through the Settlement . . .

  He came back to the deadling. He imagined how Crookleg, Big Fist, and Tagalong, constantly chattering, bragging, and threatening, would mill about this deadling and then, continuing to threaten and brag, would turn back toward the village, out of harm’s way. He bent down and grabbed the deadling by the legs, which were still hot but no longer burned. He shoved the heavy body hard into the swamp. The bog squelched, wheezed, and gave way. The dark water rippled, then it was still again.

  “Nava,” Candide said, “go back to the village.”

  “How can I go back to the village,” Nava said reasonably, “if you don’t go back? Now if you go back to the village, too—”

  “Stop chattering,” said Candide. “Run back to the village right now and wait for me. And don’t talk to anyone there.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m a man,” Candide said. “No one will do anything to me.”

  “Sure they will,” objected Nava. “I’m telling you: What if it’s the freaks? They don’t care if it’s man, woman, or deadling, they’ll make you a freak yourself, you’ll be walking here, frightening people, and at night, you’ll have to stick yourself to a tree . . . How can I go alone, if they might be over there, behind us?”

  “There’s no such thing as a freak,” Candide said, not very confidently. “It’s all lies.”

  He looked back. There was a bend in the road there, too, and he couldn’t guess what was around that bend either. Nava was talking to him, saying lots of things in a rapid whisper, and this felt especially unpleasant. He got a better grip on his cudgel. “All right. You can come along. Only stay close, and if I order you to do something, do it immediately. And keep quiet—close your mouth and keep quiet all the way until the Settlement. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t know how to keep quiet, of course. She really did stay close—she stopped running ahead and falling behind—but she kept muttering things under her breath: first about the freaks, then about Crookleg, how they had walked here together and he made her a whistle . . . They went around the dangerous bend, then around another dangerous bend, and Candide was just starting to relax when some people silently stepped out from the tall grass, coming toward them out of the swamp.

  That does it, Candide thought wearily. I have no luck. I never have any luck. He glanced at Nava. Nava was shaking her head; her face had puckered.

  “Don’t you give me away, Silent Man,” she muttered, “I don’t want to go with them. I want to stay with you, don’t give me away . . .”

  He looked at the people. There were seven of them—all men, all with beards up to their eyes, and all holding enormous gnarled cudgels. They didn’t look local, and they didn’t dress in local fashion—they were wearing completely different plants. They were thieves.

  “What are you stopping for?” the head thief said in a deep, resonant voice. “Come here, we won’t hurt you . . . If you were deadlings, then of course it’d be a different story, except then there wouldn’t be much of a story, we’d be greeting you with our sticks and clubs, that’d be the end of that story . . . Where are you two going? To the Settlement, is that right? That’s fine, that’s allowed. Pops, you go on by yourself. And leave your daughter with us, of course. And don’t be sorry, she’ll be better off with us, she will.”

  “No,” said Nava, “I don’t want to go with them. Silent Man, I mean it, I don’t want to go with them, they are thieves.”

  The thieves laughed—not maliciously, like they were used to it.

  “Maybe you’ll let us both go?” Candide asked.

  “No,” said the head thief, “you can’t both go. There are deadlings all around, your daughter would perish, she’d become a fine helpmate or something nasty like that, and we don’t want that, and you don’t want it either, Pops, just think about it, if you’re a man and not a deadling, and you don’t look like a deadling, though you’re a strange-looking one, of course.”

  “She’s just a girl,” said Candide. “Why would you hurt her?”

  The head thief was surprised. “Who says we’ll hurt her? She won’t be a girl forever, when the time comes, she’ll be a woman, not some fine helpmate, but a woman.”

  “It’s all lies,” Nava said, “don’t you believe him, Silent Man, do something quick, since you brought me here, or they’ll take me away, like they took Crookleg’s daughter away, and no one has ever seen her since, I don’t want to go with them, I’d rather be that fine helpmate thing . . . Look how wild and skinny they are, they probably don’t even have anything to eat.”

  Candide looked around helplessly, then he suddenly had what appeared to him to be a very good idea. “Listen, men,” he said pleadingly, “take us both.”

  The thieves came closer. The head thief carefully examined Candide from head to toe. “No,” he said. “What would we do with your kind? You villagers, you’re go
od for nothing, you have no daring to you, I don’t know what your lives are for, we can come and take you barehanded. We don’t need you, Pops, you don’t talk right, not like everyone else, no telling what kind of man you are, go on to your Settlement, and leave us your daughter.”

  Candide sighed deeply, gripped his cudgel with both hands, and told Nava softly, “Run, Nava! Run and don’t look back, I’ll slow them down.”

  How stupid, he thought. My goodness, how very stupid. He remembered the deadling lying with its head in the dark water, looking like jelly, and raised his cudgel above his head.

  “Go, go, go!” the leader shouted.

  All seven of them piled forward, elbowing each other and slipping. Candide listened to the staccato drumming of Nava’s heels, then he had other things to think about. He felt ashamed and afraid, but the fear soon passed, because it unexpectedly turned out that the only decent fighter among the thieves was the head thief. Parrying his blows, Candide watched the remaining thieves menacingly and pointlessly shake their cudgels, accidentally hitting each other, staggering from their own herculean swings, and frequently stopping to spit on their hands. One of them suddenly screamed hysterically “I’m drowning!” and loudly crashed into the swamp, then another two immediately abandoned their cudgels and began to drag him out. The head thief pressed on, grunting and stomping his feet, until Candide accidentally hit him in the kneecap. The head thief dropped his cudgel, hissed, and crouched down. Candide sprang back.

  Two thieves were dragging the drowning one out of the swamp. He had gotten badly stuck—his face had turned blue. The head thief was still crouching, anxiously examining his injury. The remaining three thieves were huddling behind him with their cudgels raised, looking over his head and also contemplating the injury.

  “Pops, you fool,” the head thief said reproachfully. “What a thing to do, you stupid villager. What hole did you crawl out of? Don’t know what’s good for you, you woodenhead, you numbskull . . .”

  Candide didn’t wait any longer. He turned around and ran after Nava as fast as he could. The thieves yelled after them in anger and derision; the head thief whooped and roared, “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!” They weren’t chasing him, and Candide didn’t like that. He felt vexed and disappointed, and as he ran he tried to figure out how these clumsy, bumbling, and not unkind people could strike terror into whole villages, and also somehow destroy deadlings—clever and ruthless fighters.

  He soon saw Nava: the girl was running about eighty feet ahead of him, hitting the ground firmly with her bare heels. He watched as she disappeared around a bend, then suddenly leaped back out—this time coming toward him—paused for a moment, and shot off to the side, right through the swamp, jumping from stump to stump, water spraying from under her feet.

  Candide’s heart sank. “Stop!” he bawled, out of breath. “You’re crazy! Stop!”

  Nava immediately stopped, grabbed on to a hanging vine, and turned to look at him. Then he saw three more thieves come out toward him from around the bend. They also stopped, looking between him and Nava.

  “Silent Man!” Nava shrieked. “Beat them up and run this way! Don’t worry, you won’t drown! Beat them up, beat them up! With the stick! Ooh-ooh-ooh! Oh-ho-ho them!”

  “Now, now,” one of the thieves said solicitously. “Hold on tight and don’t shout, hold on real tight, or we’ll have to drag you out . . .”

  He heard feet pounding the ground behind him and people shouting “Ooh-ooh-ooh!” The three thieves in front of him were waiting. Then Candide grabbed the two ends of the cudgel, held it out in front of his chest, took a running start, and crashed into them, taking all three of them down and falling down himself. He got a nasty bump from crashing into someone, but he immediately jumped up. His head was swimming. There was another frightened wail of “I’m drowning!” Someone’s bearded face appeared in front of him, and Candide hit it with the cudgel without looking. The cudgel broke. Candide tossed the remaining piece away and jumped into the swamp.

  The stump slid out from under his feet and he almost fell off, but he immediately leaped to the next one and began to jump heavily from stump to stump, sending the stinky black mud flying. Nava was squealing triumphantly and whistling at him. Irritated voices were buzzing behind him: “What was that? You got two left hands?” “What about you, eh?” “The girl got away from us, now she’s doomed . . .” “The man’s gone crazy, fighting like that!” “Damn it, he ripped my clothes, my fine clothes, they were irreplaceable, those clothes of mine, and it wasn’t even him who ripped them, it was you . . .” “Come on, that’s enough talk—we should catch them, not talk. Look, they’re running away, and all you do is talk!” “What about you, eh?” “He hurt my leg, see? He messed up my knee, I can’t understand how he messed up my knee, I was just taking a swing and . . .” “Where’s Seven Eyes? Guys, Seven Eyes is drowning!” “Drowning! So he is . . . Seven Eyes is drowning and all they do is talk!”

  Candide stopped next to Nava and also grabbed on to some vines, then he listened and watched, breathing heavily, as the strange men, huddling together and waving their arms, dragged their Seven Eyes from the swamp by the head and feet. He could hear snorts and sounds of gurgling water. Then again, two thieves were already walking toward Candide, testing the depth of the bog with their cudgels, knee-deep in the black muck. They walked around the stumps. It’s all lies again, thought Candide. People can wade through the swamp, and they told me there was no way to go but the road. They tried to scare me with the thieves, and just look at them . . .

  Nava tugged on his arm. “Let’s go, Silent Man,” she said. “What are you standing around for? Come along quick. Or do you maybe want to fight more? Then wait, I’ll find you a good stick, you can beat those two up, then the others, they’ll probably be scared off . . . But if they aren’t scared off, they’ll overpower you, I think, since there’s one of you, and there are . . . one . . . two, three . . . four . . .”

  “Where should we go?” Candide asked. “Can we make it to the Settlement?”

  “Probably,” said Nava. “I don’t see why we couldn’t make it to the Settlement . . .”

  “Then go in front,” said Candide. He had already mostly caught his breath. “Show me the way.”

  Nava began leaping toward the forest, light on her feet, heading into the thicket, into the green haze of vegetation. “Actually, I don’t know how or where to go,” she said as she ran. “But I’ve already been here once, or maybe more than once, maybe many times. I walked here with Crookleg, before you came to us . . . Actually, no, you had already come to us, but you couldn’t think straight, didn’t understand anything, couldn’t talk, looked at everyone like a fish, you did, then they gave you to me, and I nursed you back to health, but you don’t remember any of it, probably . . .”

  Candide jumped after her, trying to keep his breathing regular and follow precisely in her footsteps. From time to time, he looked around. The thieves were close behind.

  “And I walked here with Crookleg,” Nava continued, “when the thieves took Big Fist’s wife, Crookleg’s daughter. He always took me with him then, he might have wanted to trade me for her, or maybe he wanted me to be like a daughter to him, so he came to the forest with me, since he was so broken up about his daughter . . .”

  The vines stuck to his hands and whipped him in the face, and tangled balls of dead vines kept catching on his clothes and getting underfoot. Insects and other trash would fall on them from above; from time to time, heavy, shapeless masses would sink down, fall through the tangled greenery, and swing right over their heads. Sticky purple clusters kept flickering through the curtain of vines on both sides of them—they might have been mushrooms, or fruit, or the nests of some nasty forest creature.

  “Crookleg, he said there’s a village around here”—Nava spoke effortlessly as she ran, as if she weren’t running at all but lounging in bed; you could immediately tell that she wasn’t a local, locals didn’t know how to run—“not o
ur village, not the Settlement, but some other village, Crookleg told me its name, but I don’t remember, it was a long time ago, after all—you hadn’t come to us yet . . . No, wait, you had already come to us, but you couldn’t think straight, and they still hadn’t given you to me . . . By the way, breathe through your mouth when you run, not your nose, it makes it easier to talk, too, else you’ll run out of breath soon, and we still have a long way to go, we haven’t passed the wasps yet, that’s where we better run real fast, although they might have gone away since then, the wasps . . . The wasps were over there, in that very same village, and no one’s lived in that village for a long time, Crookleg said, the Surpassment happened there already, he said, so there isn’t a soul left . . . No, Silent Man, I’m wrong about that, I am, he said that about some other village . . .”

  Candide got a second wind and running became easier. They were now deep in the thicket, in the very midst of the greenery. Candide had only gone in this far once, the time he had mounted a deadling, hoping to be taken to its masters—the deadling had broken into a gallop, it was scorching hot, like a boiling kettle, and Candide eventually fainted from the pain and fell off its back into the mud. For a long time after, he was tormented by the burns on his palms and chest.

  It was getting darker and darker. He could no longer see the sky at all, and the humidity kept rising. On the plus side, there was less and less open water, and enormous carpets of white and red moss had appeared underfoot. The moss was soft, cool, and very springy, and it was pleasant to run on.

  “Let’s . . . rest . . .” wheezed Candide.

  “No, no, Silent Man,” said Nava. “This is no place to rest. Hurry up, we need to quickly get away from this moss, this is dangerous moss. It’s not really moss, Crookleg said, it’s an animal lying here, sort of like a spider, and if you fall asleep on it, you’ll never wake up, that’s the kind of moss it is, let those thieves rest here instead—but then, they probably know not to, too bad, I wish they would . . .”